


Title Of The Fic

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And Guy Sex, Fluff and Angst, May Contain Punching, Oh God What Am I Even Doing?, Oh Yeah And Johnlock, Parentlock, Post Reichenbach, Reunion Fic, This Is An Experiment Really, obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:37:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamish came into John and Sherlock's lives before The Fall. The fact he had a toddler to look after helped John through his grieving. This was until Hamish started talking about Father in the present tense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from my girl Tora. My first ever John!lock. 
> 
> The title is just for fun being that I have no idea what to call it. It will most likely change if I continue with this fic. It's a nod to the musical eargasm and funny bone tickler that was the group DaVinci's Notebook. The song is called Title Of The Song and is basically the formula for every boyband ballad since the eighties. Seriously. Check them out.
> 
> Once more into the fray.  
> Into the last good fight I'll ever know.  
> Live and die on this day.  
> Live and die on this day.  
> -That Liam Neeson Movie Where He Gets In A Plane Crash In Alaska Then Punches Wolves To Death

 

John's mother received at least flowers once a week.

She deserved the crown jewels really for the ease with which she juggled two teen-agers, two jobs, housework, and grieving a deceased spouse. It was all _he_ could do to keep it together with one part-time (albeit well-paying) job including flexible hours and a seven year-old with his easy smile who excelled in everything. She didn't even have a Mrs. Hudson to help pick up the slack when he would be late at the surgery or  _Before_ , when he had to run out after his partner in all meanings of the word. Hamish was generally well-behaved, even with his mile-wide streak of precociousness. The child came by it honestly, mirroring both the natural and nurturing influence of Sherlock in detail that was sometimes painful for John to witness.

John checked his watch (a military grade piece he still hadn't discovered all the functions of) for the third time in as many minutes. Hamish should have been home by now. Part of the agreement for letting him walk home from Akido with the older boys in his class was that he would be at their Baker Street door no more than eight minutes after his "On my way -HWH" text, sent as he walked out the door of the Dojo. John's heart sped up steadily as he tried to convince himself that boys would be boys sometimes and Hamish was probably playing in the puddles. Or, more realistically examining the effect of the current downpour on the something or other and lost track of time. It had happened before, punished by enduring the embarrassment of his _Dad_ picking him up and slathering him with affection _in front of his mates_ for at least a week after that. 

No, Hamish was fine. He had  _definitely_  not been kidnapped by the leader of the drugs ring they had foiled five years ago. Was that man getting released from prison today or next week? With that question tearing at his brain and his heart pounding in his ears he lept from his chair. John pounded down the steps, snatching his jacket off of the hook as he simultaneously yanked the door open.

Hamish looked like a wet, long-haired cat that had been caught doing something naughty.

Chestnut locks that usually curled lazily were pulled taut by the rainshower as he froze in a somewhat crouched position. He'd always had a thick head of hair and, when he was old enough to ask, insisted on it being military regulation. But then Sherlock fell (John watched it and he did. not. jump.) and now no one but John could touch it without provoking a flailing, tearful fit and then only to help him wash it properly. John watched in absent amazement as the look in Hamish's immense cloudless sky eyes transformed from surprise to irritation, and finally settled on a form of contrition. As John nearly hyperventilated with relief, Hamish unrolled. He was easily as tall as boys years older and that, coupled with his rather intense sure-footed approach to things made it difficult for some to remember he was "only" seven. John never forgot Hamish's age. It did sometimes slip his mind, however, that the boy was never "only" anything.

He grabbed him by the arm, spindly even through the thick layer of his coat and tugged him inside out of the downpour. Halfway up the stairs to their flat and well into the lecture, John took a breath which was just long enough for Hamish to protest,

"Dad, my school bag!"

John only paused for a moment then decided getting the boy drying by the fire took precedence and continued the rest of the way up as well as his diatribe. 

"Clothes off," he commanded, pulling him over to the reassuring heat of a proper fire. He continued his tirade as he threw on another log to make sure. "I didn't even want you doing this at all, you know."

"I know, Dad." John _heard_ the child's eyes rolling but decided to ignore it for the time being as the pure Sherlock-ness of it would put him off his task of being a rightfully distressed parent. He had turned to said child who was going as slowly as possible in defiance and began the kind of help that would force the boy to decide he was better off doing it on his own within his parent's parameters. That bit of psychology successful, John pulled several towels from a cupboard and clicked on the kettle, all the whilst reprimanding their son.

"Mrs. Hudson assured me it would be fine and you could handle it," John rebuked.

" _I_ can," Hamish stated in a tone much too close to the haughty I Told You So of his other biological contributor. He swore backing up Sherlock went down to his very _genes_ as Hamish seemed to have gotten little of John's own looks or mannerisms. " _You_ seem to be the one having the problem with it." John paused in drying off the boy, resuming a little more roughly as he pressed his lips so tightly together that they pooched out a bit to keep from giving a reply inappropriately worded for a child. Or crying. The kid wasn't exactly wrong. It had only been a few minutes. He was unharmed and curious about... what exactly was he doing anyway? John stuck a proverbial pushpin in that one and remembered all that could happen in a "few minutes". One could bleed to death or get kidnapped by a psychopathic consulting criminal and get strapped into a semtex vest, or lose the person who saved you in more ways than one. 

"We had an _agreement_ , Hamish." That last thought had punched a hole out of which his irritation was draining, leaving only exhaustion and residual fear. "You can't just do as you please all the time. A man is only as good as his word." From his kneeling position, he wrapped a towel around the boy's waist and another around his shoulders which he squeezed for emphasis. 

"I know. I'm sorry." He really was. "But Dad there are important things in my school bag. They'll be stolen," he protested in a voice that was just across the street from a whine but the sincerity in it was a little heartbreaking. John outright refused to be taken in by Hamish's slight lisp. 

"Would serve you right for worrying me half to death," John murmured as his fiercely intelligent, occasionally infuriating son looked over at him expectantly, almost as tall as him in this position. He stood, folded his arms and drew himself up to his full height, though his heart really wasn't in it and their Sherlockian child could probably deduce it. It was all a routine really; something done in order to find a little more comfort. That's why John used his best fatherly voice to announce, "We're not finished, young man." An absurd picture of him brandishing a pipe flashed in his mind and he very nearly giggled, ruining the moment. 

"I know." The harshness in Hamish's tone had completely dissipated.

"Alright," John sighed. "Go and get your pyjamas on and come down for dinner. I'll collect your bag."

"Yes, sir." Satisfied that they probably really  _were_ finished, Hamish swept up the stairs as if he were a Roman prince instead of properly chastised boy. John firmly pushed away memories of Buckingham Palace, wearing the latest in bed couture and giggling over Queen Mycroft as he made his way to the front door, still wide open to the elements. He was never more glad of Mycroft's gift, the material something that James Bond may have used to keep important things safe in everything from a rainstorm to (probably) being at the center of a bomb blast. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could have a full body suit of it made up for Hamish then once again dismissed it out of hand. Focusing on the bag, it took him a moment to register the things poking out of the lock. He plucked them from their impromptu holder, completely unsure of what he was feeling. It wasn't numbness because things roiled within his chest, making it tighten a little and difficult to take a deep breath. So he sighed shallowly, took up the bag and, the instruments fisted in his right hand, shut the door behind him with his foot noticing how incredibly heavy the bag was. He almost didn't want to know what it contained. He barely restrained himself from looking yet in favour of what was in his other hand.

He shut the flat door behind him the same way, tucking the two metal things into his pocket and setting the school bag on the floor with a decided clatter to the left of the desk where Hamish would do his homework. He made his way into the kitchen, ignoring the decided lack of body parts in the fridge (still) and extracted the two plates Mrs. Hudson had made up for them. Mrs. Hudson always seemed to make "a little too much" despite John's protests that he was perfectly capable of fixing Hamish nutritious meals. Her definition of "a little too much" tended to actually be "enough for ten people". He was truly grateful all the same and reminded himself to get her something nice the next time he was finding something for his mother.

John nearly dropped his own plate as he took it out of the microwave when Hamish had suddenly appeared in the doorway. With a triumphant giggle, he sat at his place across from John.

"Aw! Mrs. Hudson's roast! Brilliant!" Hamish cried as he tucked in, before pausing to look remorsefully at John. "Your roast is good too, Dad." John realized he was scrutinizing their son.

"What? Oh! Right no it's... it's fine. It's delicious. Better than mine really," he said truthfully. "What I want to know is, are you studying to be a burglar?"

"No. That's ridiculous, Dad," Hamish retorted without hesitation. " _We_ catch burglars. In order to catch them efficiently, I'll have to learn their ways. Obviously."

"I...," He didn't know what to say as the logic was infallible. So he just placed what was in his pocket on the table. Hamish jumped to his feet to reach for them but John quickly snatched them back. "I don't think so, Hamish. What are you even doing with these anyway?"

"Please give back my lockpicks, Dad. Father says I have to practice."

"No. You're not even supposed to have these. If you got caught with them... what?" The forlorn look in the vast depth of the little boy's eyes gave him heartwrenching pause and something about the tense used temporarily tickled the very back of his mind.

"Father gave them to me." John frowned and couldn't look at Hamish's face for a moment. Hamish mercilessly continued. "For my fifth birthday, he gave them to me in secret but my motor skills weren't refined enough to use them properly." Leave it to Sherlock to find a way to give a child something illegal and dangerous that John couldn't bear to take away from him. That was the last birthday he had with him. John sighed, suddenly not hungry. "I didn't ask for them earlier because I knew you would see them when you went down there and I'd have some explaining to do." Hamish then seemed to turn inward a bit, eyes cast down and skimming unseeing across the tabletop. He'd lowered his voice so John barely heard him when he said, "I did so well with the other locks. Why was the front door so difficult?" He grabbed the roll off of his plate and took a thoughtful bite, moving to leave. At least he liked to snack when he was thinking unlike _other people_ who may have had to be forcefed every once in a while so they wouldn't collapse in the middle of a chase.

"Erm, excuse me. You haven't been excused." He saw that Hamish was genuinely lost when he looked up in response. "Sit back down and finish your dinner."

"But Dad-"

"No buts. You have dinner and homework. If I hear no more complaints regarding those things, I'll give you back your tools." The grin that appeared on the boy's face was infectious though the man fought valiantly. "But you must only keep them in the house. It will avoid trouble." The boy nodded so emphatically that John thought his head would fall off, tousled hair long back to it's natural curled state flopping with the force of it.

"Yes, sir!"

 According to Hamish's lively chatter, the backpack was full of various locked things for him to practice on. Inside of each thing was what he lightly referred to as "A present from Father." John wrote it off as just the fancy of a grieving yet resilient child's mind.

***

That night he only caught Hamish twice after lights out,  the lad refusing to sleep until he had been through a certain amount of locks. The third time John went up there after hearing a thump on the floor uncharacteristic of a sleeping child, he was met with the sight of Hamish having fallen unconscious in the middle of his task and the heavy receptacle (Oak maybe?) falling to the floor. John sighed fondly, remembering the times he'd caught Sherlock in that exact situation. He straightened his covers over him, pushing back soft coils to brush a light kiss on the dear temple not quite as pale. The duvet, which was a special order from a science-fiction magazine, depicted a large blue 60's era Police box. Sherlock of course detested the show ("So many scientific inconsistencies, John." "You deleted space, Sherlock, how would you know?") but the windows of the graphic glowed in the dark and John had made sure to instill a love for that particular British institution early. Regardless of his outward behaviour, Sherlock had a harder time denying Hamish than John did, and John was pretty easy.

He looked around the bedroom with his usual slight ache. The boy kept everything meticulously in place. One of John's small influences. There were new samples of things on his desk he didn't remember seeing before, small parcels of dirt in clear 1"X1" containers, a dissected and labeled mouse preserved in it's own sealed vessel, and an amethyst geode cut from what would have been a gorgeous skipping stone. John assumed these and a few other things were all items rescued from Hamish's locked boxes and they were all... perfect. They were exactly what Sherlock would have... He turned off the Enterprise lamp with a soft ' _snick_ ' and left the room, shutting the door between himself and thoughts that were better worked out in the light of day. Or never. Never was good, too.

John continued his routine on auto-pilot. Tidying up, making sure all was set for the next day as far as meals, clothes, and paperwork, shower, brush teeth. The whole time freed up his mind to let him turn the pages of their life together as a family. He remembered that insane scientist over in Baskerville and how he somehow procured enough biological material to basically grow his own Sherlock and John. He remembered when they received the child Harry Potter style, literally left on their doorstep with a letter announcing who the two week-old baby was and the details of his creation. He recalled the argument with Mycroft that ensued where Sherlock and John stood as a united front having already decided to keep the baby instead of having him grow up as a science experiment in a lab or, worse, destroyed. They'd won that one with logic, Mummy's insistence on a grandchild, and a beautiful blow that sent The British Government sprawling, his perfect appearance rumpled and covered in blood. It wasn't even John that did it that time.

He recalled Sherlock being up at nights, for weeks not taking anything higher than a five or that couldn't be solved over Skype, often with a nursing child in his arms. He recollected the thorough scolding he'd received from his Consulting Detective when he "let" Hamish get a cold for the first time in his life. Hamish was two years old and learned every bone in the human body during the week-long convalescence Sherlock insisted upon. Hamish was almost always practically vibrating with energy except for when he watched his fathers in their elements. John would hold him while Sherlock made the fire burn different colours and described the chemicals reacting until Hamish could answer random questions about it by the time he was three. John would let him wear his old helmet and Sherlock would film Hamish with his phone trying to drag little feet around in heavy duty boots, saluting with chubby fingers. 

There were his first words ("Obvious" and "No Shrock, you can't"), his first steps (from Sherlock to John), and, wonder of all wonders, Sherlock was never bored. At least not ever again to the level that would, in some people, require sectioning.

There was nothing he normally watched that night on telly and so he'd get to talk to Sherlock early. _  
_

"Hey, Sherlock," he greeted the dusty ceiling after sliding into their bed in what used to be only Sherlock's room. Sometimes he could wrap himself in the duvet until he was overly warm and pretend it was him, draping long limbs over him in the night, the residual heat from his constant movement and their love-making radiating through to John's bones. He could sometimes still smell him, a mixture of ridiculously expensive grooming products and mystery. It was the only word for it and it was achingly appropriate that the enigma of Sherlock should naturally smell of The Work.

"Hamish and I will be out to your headstone tomorrow. Mrs. Hudson may come too if the weather isn't too bad. She finally let Mycroft pay for her hip surgery but it'll still be months of physical therapy before she's fully recovered." As if in answer, the rain finally let up, stopping it's tapping on the room's one window. "Hamish pulled a 'you' today. He tried to pick the lock on the front door. Said it would help him fight crime; help _us_ fight crime. What the hell were you doing giving lockpicks to a five year-old? They're sharp and... and dangerous..." The familiar ache in his chest as he tried to draw in a breath preceded the twinge behind his eyes as they began filling. "You're an idiot," he said, voice raw with misery as he let the tears drag him under.

 


	2. Chapter 2

"I really dislike having you here under these circumstances, Mr Watson-Holmes, but I feel I have little choice," said Headmaster Smith, a rather simpering man with greasy dishwater hair that was rapidly disappearing. Why people opted for a combover when they should just give it up and shave their heads completely had always been a mystery to John. But then, it wasn't really his business. His business was the sullen boy to his left trying his level best to have the cheap arm chair covered in rough dark fabric swallow him whole. Yet the child still blurted,

"Doctor."

"Pardon?" Smith flicked incredulous dark eyes at the word's source as if just then discovering Hamish's presence.

" _Doctor_ Watson-Holmes. You always forget that. Just hope he never has to save your life."

"Enough, Hamish." John warned. "Just... go wait outside, alright?" Hamish blew out a put-upon sigh and stood to grab his bag and move toward the door. John thought twice then added, "And I mean sitting on the bench outside _this_ door, not outside wherever you choose." Hamish rolled giant crystal blues and sighed again, but they both knew this game. When Hamish was overly annoyed sometimes one had to be literal with him. The men watched him in silence for a full ten seconds after he'd closed the door behind himself.

It wasn't like the child was incorrect (more times than just this incident actually), but his words sounded too much like a threat. He hadn't been so flippant with authority before the past two weeks in which this was the third time John had to leave work to deal with him. It was the first time it had happened with his teacher however. "Sorry, Mr. Smith. He's just-"

"Have you considered taking him to a professional?" John inwardly flinched at that. When Sherlock first Fell, they had both been to see therapists, John his old one and Hamish someone who had come highly recommended by someone he couldn't remember through the cloud of his grief. That worked out not at all. Ella was nice enough but John didn't see the point of the condescending questions, the inability for her or anyone to _see_. Everyone had lost Sherlock though he belonged to John and Hamish. The world was draining of colour, the only bright spots the eyes and heart of this child that contained so much of what Sherlock was.

"Was he correct?" John asked as if he hadn't heard the headmaster's question.

"I-I'm sorry?" John had picked up and skimmed the file on the desk in front of him as if he'd asked permission. He had to check one thing to sort this particular situation out. 

"Was Hamish correct about the teacher's mistake in the biology lesson?"

"I... don't see what this has to do with-"

"Answer. The question, Mr. Smith." John stated in that quiet authoritative way he had. A seed of anger had begun a slow burn in the pit of his belly at the words on the page he had now extracted from the folder. The headmaster seemed to wilt even more under the sudden coldness in the usual warm sapphire of John's eyes. The man timidly held an asking hand out for the paper. It trembled slightly as he took it.

"He... well it says here, ahem, as you may have read Mr... _Doctor_ Watson-Holmes that Hamish's correctness in the matter had nothing to do with his behaviour." John leaned back in the chair for the first time since this whole thing began, satisfied, and plastered a neutral look onto his face. It was one of those expressions people generally accepted as open but something in the back of their head would whisper _Danger_ though they couldn't pin-point exactly what it was. Sherlock defined it as the look he had when he would as soon shake your hand as grab you by the throat without even changing it. He'd really enjoyed it.

"Call him in here."

"Doctor Watson-Holmes he's in the midst of-"

"Immediately." He raised his eyebrows for emphasis but never his voice. The  _Danger_ in the back of Headmaster Smith's head probably rose to a shout temporarily because the man flinched and cleared his throat to sound somewhat in control when he rang the secretary to comply. John had no idea how this man had gotten this job with such a thin skin, though if reports from other sources were to be believed he was supposed to be quite terrifying. He assumed it was a side effect of orbiting planet Sherlock, this learning to read people in more detail than just his 'gut' provided. He was planning to hone this skill further in the approaching moments, rising to his normal parade rest as a man that had a few inches even on Sherlock entered. John took in his slumped shoulders _compensating for height differential and something else..._ , black tweed jacket with dark brown patches at the elbows  _less than a month old if it was a day_ , and watery downcast eyes, the same blue as Sherlock's favourite dressing gown and as large as Hamish's. There were lines on his squared face and his hair was neat, straw straight and more salt than pepper. It shagged ever so slightly  _he's missed his haircut appointment. At least twice._

John knew he would never be on Sherlock's level of course, but  _this_ hit him all at once, and hard.

"This man has just lost his wife, Mr. Smith." John stated after clearing his throat, unsuccessful in dislodging the growing lump. He hadn't realized the room had been silent as he was making his assessments. "He has no business being back at work of this nature. Didn't you know this before he was hired?"

"I say Doctor, I have no idea-"

"It's true," the man stated defeatedly in a voice easily as deep as Sherlock's but much less compelling, so much more...  _lost_.

"Also," John plowed on, "I've never even met this man. A brand new teacher and no one thought to inform me in advance?"

"A letter is to be sent home with each student today-" But John had heard enough, folding his arms across his chest to keep from making fists.

"Who is this man to your superior that you hired him sight unseen? Because one can tell by just looking at him he's barely getting out of bed of his own volition, let alone capable of guiding young minds at this point, let alone ones like Hamish's." The seed had grown into a carnivorous plant, eating away at his calm.

"First cousin," the man, whose name John hadn't even gotten as yet stated, surprise crinkling the edges of the despair in his voice. "I'm Everett Jones. I thought... I thought if I just went back to work, it would work out. I apologise for my inexcusable behaviour." John was at something of a loss, and could only nod his acceptance of the admission at first.

"We're done here," John declared finally and moved to exit. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Jones and that Hamish was so much trouble. He gets that always right thing from his Father. Afternoon."

"Doctor Watson-Holmes-," began the headmaster almost desperately, but John ignored him and signed Hamish out, steering him by the back of his collar all the way out of the doors.

The day was cold and surprisingly clear. A combination of sunlight, temperature and vigorous walking put color into the cheeks of both father and son. Hamish didn't speak until they'd gone half a block.

"Dad I-"

"No," John said decisively. He was becoming a champion at cutting people off today but he just no longer had the patience. "You can't keep this behaviour up, Hamish. I can't keep leaving work to deal with these situations you get yourself into."

"He was just being so... _boring,"_ the child complained, shifting his school bag onto his left shoulder. Hamish was what the American soldiers he'd worked with years ago called a Southpaw just like John, often resulting in smeared writing and much lamenting about how he'd never make it at Hogwarts with their inkpots and quills until he allowed John to teach him how to deal with it. John pointedly ignored the phrasing in order to maintain his sanity. "I had to correct him _three times_. Then he got angry with _me_ as if _I_ was the reason he was wrong!" John knew he was telling the truth. It really wasn't Hamish's fault this time but it didn't excuse the past two incidents. As far as he knew, Mr. Bubbles the class hamster was still at large, possibly growing an extra pouch in which to store food or something. "I... suppose I could have been a bit more polite about it," Hamish confessed.

"Probably," John agreed, already trying to figure out what to do with this boy educationally speaking. He was loathe to take Mycroft up on his offer to have him privately tutored but he damn sure wasn't going to trust him even now to send him away for school. It was a waste of money for practical, frugal John who'd had to deal with enough daft ponces skating through life on their family's name and money in his day. Their boy was otherwise a model student save for these past weeks. He was already in a class three forms higher than others his age and even that course work was a breeze to him. He endured it for John's sake, he knew. Hamish broke into his thoughts by halting. John turned to face their boy, looking down at him questioningly.

"I'm sorry, Dad. This won't happen again. I promise."  He placed his hand on Hamish's free shoulder and was about to respond when he snapped to the sound of his name being called, instinctively stepping between the direction it was coming from and Hamish.

"Doctor Watson-Holmes!" the man was calling out, gangling form rushing, briefcase tucked securely under a mile-long arm as his grey parka flapped in the generated wind. He waited until the man breathlessly reached them, John remaining protectively in front of Hamish.

"Mr. Jones." The taller man's forlorn features were tinged with something like expectation(?).

"Hamish Watson-Holmes," Jones blurted. "You're _the_  John Watson-Holmes! You're... I'm so sorry! I didn't realize..." John attempted to school his countenance, blinking rapidly, pursing and unpursing his lips. Now came the pity, the empty words. Only, this man had at least a small idea of what he was going through. "Hello Hamish."

"Mr. Jones," Hamish nodded formally, stepping out from behind his father.

"I'm really very sorry for losing my temper. Will you shake hands?" Hamish glanced at John for instruction. John nodded encouragingly, so Hamish shook hands in a gentlemanly fashion. John observed Everett Jones closely. He seemed to be just short of saying something several times before Hamish spoke up.

"Dad, he wants our help."

" _Our_ help?" He looked incredulously at the boy who was the model of sincerity. 

"Honestly, I don't know how to ask. Especially in light of what has just transpired at the school. I... I hate to ask. Really. But you're my last hope and I'm desperate. Is there... somewhere we can speak in private?" Hamish widened his eyes incentively at John this time.

"I... alright. We live-"

"I know. Baker Street."

 

***

 

John emerged from the kitchen after having offered Mr. Jones his chair and starting tea to a sight that made him blink hard and fast. He had to lean in the kitchen doorway and turn his head to get the image out of his mind so that he could properly negotiate this situation. Hamish was seated in Sherlock's chair, dwarfed by it, feet not quite able to touch the ground despite his height. The problem wasn't that, but the fact that the boy rested his right ankle on his left knee, steepled his fingers together in front of his chin, and had cocked his head slightly, fixing the guest with an uncannily familiar appraising stare. So like his deceased father's was it that Mr. Jones seemed to fidget under it like most did.

"I believe Mr. Jones wishes to speak to me privately, Hamish. Go upstairs, please," John managed to choke out. The words emerged surprisingly more solid than he thought they would.

"But Dad I just deduced he's had a death in his family. Probably his wife. D'you think she was murdered, Mr. Jones?" John pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and swore under his breath, then began counting. Hamish knew Dad was at his limit when this happened and reluctantly dragged his feet, clomping up the steps to drive home his disapproval of the situation and leaving the newly bereaved man staring after him.

John sat reverently in Sherlock's chair for the first time in three years. He didn't do this anymore, only helping in as minimal capacity as possible when Lestrade could convince him it was extremely necessary. He had no idea what he could do to help anyway. He was the heart of their operation, not the brain and a machine couldn't function properly with just one main part. He shoved the analogy from his mind before it took root and he remembered fully the last argument they had. There was no point in wasting time. He wasn't even sure whether or not he was going to be  _able_ to help this man, let alone wanting to. He felt compelled to listen to his story for comfort's sake if nothing else. They were British and seeing Ella alone instead of stiffening his upper lip was enough diversion from the proper way to deal with things, thank you very much. So he would offer and accept consolation from this man in the form of listening to his tale. He may even be able to help, however much he doubted it. 

"Hamish is right, you know." Mr. Jones said miserably.

"I know," John replied, convinced of that if nothing else on earth. "So what makes you think it was murder?"

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there, kids. Sorry it's taking so long.  
> Also, it starts getting a bit sweary here.  
> Sorry for the angst fest (almost- I mean I did warn you)

 

The shadowy damp had a harder time penetrating his adrenaline saturated demeanor than it did his rather thinner than usual clothing. Whether he anticipated a shorter stint exposed to the elements or just the need for ease of movement was unclear. At least he wore gloves. Gone were the days when he'd had to dress for a three hour stake-out in the snow at a moment's notice and, while he still encouraged dressing in layers, he had himself eased into a more settled existence. Anything was "more settled" when it compared to chasing Sherlock but he wouldn't have given up any of those moments for the world. Well, maybe the ones when frustration became blinding anger at Sherlock just being himself. Then again, make-up sex was-

The tiny sound was inconsistent with the ambient noise. A slight shuffling. A huff of breath perhaps. John narrowed navy eyes in making more use of his hearing than nearly useless sight in this particular area. Using an empty warehouse near the docks for clandestine meetings was so very cliche, according to the running monologue in his mind outfitted in Sherlock's voice. Two hostiles in all out on the floor. At least one hidden threat but most likely two or more for each side. No one actually ever comes alone when instructed to do so (no one but crazy people and Sherlock, which he supposed was the same thing).  _Dull. Predictable,_ droned Mind-Sherlock. John told him to shut-up if he didn't have anything useful to say. Mind-Sherlock poutingly complied. John wondered if this was a side effect of being on a case again. A case that began as a simple inquiry into the allegedly accidental pain medication overdose of an humble teacher's wife, further than usual access gained with the flip of one of D.I. Lestrade's pilfered badges. Even if he was recognized, everyone assumed he had an official I.D. anyways. It then morphed into a conglomerate of murder and mayhem. Again. At present his mind seemed unable to grasp the concept of his cohort not being around anymore and so kindly provided a version for him. Whether that made him more or less mad, John had no idea as the phantom seemed to be the thing keeping things together in there.

John spotted the first one, crouched as he was behind a large wooden crate stamped with some foreign destination. _P226 SIG Sauer in his right hand in dire need of cleaning_ , John noted with a hint of disgust.  _Knife in right boot. Straining forward, head turned slightly to the left. Hard of hearing perhaps and using his good ear?_  John kept an ear on the transaction and let his eyes roam the area once more.  _There! Across the way in the rafters._ Confident in the proximity of the second henchman and the fact that the goon before him was facing slightly away, John crept stealthily toward him, putting his lights out with the butt of his Browning before easing him to the ground and checking his pulse to make sure the man was still alive and that the slight scuffing and near-silent grunt didn't attract the attention of the dealers. The dark-haired one seemed to hear nothing but his own voice and his shorter counterpart seemed to be making sure to pay close attention, so he was good.

John was running out of time. The villain wasn't going to pontificate on the glory of his master plan, despite his loquaciousness. That only happened in action movies. And, of course to Sherlock. Leave it to him to attract an arch-nemesis just as dramatic as he was. John shook his head at the rush of fondness that threatened to overtake him, then blinked away the threat of tears. How the hell was he about to _cry_ at a time like this? Then again, Sherlock evoked normality in few situations.  _Hurry up, John! The transaction is nearly concluded._ Mind Sherlock was getting impatient. John knew he was correct but he didn't have to be so snappish. John went back to his original position to retrieve his phone which he had set on its side to record everything. This next bit didn't require archiving. He pressed a button twice to end the recording and back out to the text he'd already written to Lestrade indicating he would be ready for the Met by the time they arrived. He hit the send button on that and pocketed the device, doing up the zip for extra security.

Complete calm was achieved through taking aim at the cord of the light fixture across the way, the round tearing through it, sending it crashing atop the head of whomever was hiding back there. It could have rendered him unconscious or just a distraction. Either way, John wasted no more time as he dove toward the taller brunet set to receive the goods who had no intention of paying except with a bullet to the other's frontal lobe. With an epic left, he was knocked out, cable-tied and disarmed within seconds before John picked himself up to go after the other who had scampered off. Sirens already blared, strobes blasting through the night with flashes of red and blue. Why were they so close? No chance on working that out now. He had to find the runner with the final piece of physical evidence on him that would put them away for a long time.

Unfortunately, he found John first, tackling him from atop a barrel behind which he'd been laying in wait. The man wasn't terribly athletic and not much taller, but he was imbued with speed born of panic and amateurishness, deftly slipping the blade between John's ribs.

John hadn't yet registered the pain as he knocked the assailant's knife-wielding hand, effectively dislodging the weapon which clattered to the ground several feet away. A right elbow to the jaw served to get John leverage enough to turn them over yet the other man's wild bucking sent them over again several times until he was full-body slammed by the frigid temperature of the Thames. Still clutching his quarry, John fought through his surprise and used the fact that they were both struggling for the surface to reorient himself. Each breath was agony but John knew they had mere moments before the inability to move set in. So he persevered long enough to get them both hauled up onto the base of the rickety ramp, only allowing himself three excruciating breaths of rest before he checked on his opponent, passed out and probably fading. The chance of being able to drag the man a few inches more let alone to the top of the ramp was minimal, so he cable tied his arms securely to a nearby pole that would keep his face out of the water and began the most arduous process of making his way up the ramp whilst no longer being able to feel his toes and battling a full body ache as he shivered violently.

He was aided the last few steps by Lestrade who had a foil lined blanket around him before he even tried to hand him over to the paramedics, barking orders regarding retrieval of suspects and evidence as he followed John who was mumbling who and what was where to the ambulance. John tugged at the mask but, just as he was about to speak, the knife wound was discovered, causing a redoubled effort despite his struggle to give his report. It was like a sledgehammer hit him in the chest, drowning out all other sound and pain when he met azure eyes, round with terror through the glass of a Panda's back window.

 

***

John clawed his way up through the black fog and muffled sounds until they resolved themselves into neutral surroundings and monitor blips. Whatever state he had been in did not lend itself to dreams. Thank God for small miracles on the nightmare front. It was slow going as he blinked languidly at a stark white ceiling grasping anxiously at the word attempting to form in his mind. It was important, this word and what it represented. It was _necessary_ to get ahold of this word.

Hamish.

Jolting upright, the alarming sounds from his monitors reflecting the action, was possibly the worst idea he'd had besides taking this case on. He wasn't a young man anymore. He wasn't even whole anymore, just in a state of suspended renovation since Sherlock Fell. The house performed its basic functions, well even, but there was always that tarp and bits of exposed wood and plaster that was abandoned by the builders. At the moment the new crack in the wall was excruciating. He hated to think of what it would have been like had he no pain reliever, but all thoughts and actions were secondary to calling out their son's name which he must have done aloud as the silvered Detective Inspector tried to at once speak soothingly to him, press the call button, and yell for a medical professional. The appearance of calm a middle-aged woman with a pleasant face and shock of yellow hair ( _cheap dye job, right handed, divorced , teen-aged children_ ) caused him to check his behaviour immediately.

"Careful, Doctor Watson-Holmes. You'll tear your stitches," she admonished, Lestrade backing up to let her do her work. "I'll need to check them." John had long tried to break the stereotype of Doctors making the worst patients and so complied as well as he could unless he was being cared for by complete morons, which had happened on occasion. One of the few times he'd gotten Sherlock to go to a hospital as he was too injured to tend his wounds, Sherlock was for once right to cause a scene. Formal complaints were filed, even a few lawsuits made on their behalf. But this was Bart's and, though he avoided even the streets surrounding it when he had the option, he knew he would be well taken care of. He was infinitely glad however, that he had already passed out by the time they arrived.

"H-Hamish," John croaked again.

"He's fine, John," Lestrade insisted. "He's gone down to the canteen with Mrs. Hudson. Doctors said you'd be waking up around now and I needed to-"

"What the _fuck_ was he doing at the crime scene?!" _That_ came out nice and strong, the rawness of his throat serving to make it all the more menacing. The effect was broken by the immediate apology that followed for the sake of Nurse Miller, though her expression was less scandalized and more reproachful for the angry jerk of his movements.

"I'll explain everything in a minute. Let's let Nurse do her job, ay?"

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," she said giving the antibiotic drip bag once last pluck. "But we're all finished here. Carry on," She stabbed a blunt, impeccably clean nail at Lestrade's broad chest. "But if you cause him to tear his stitches, Detective Inspector or no, I'll have your hide for it." She then marched out of the room in a fashion that was quite admirable, shoulders square, back board-straight.

"I repeat-" John began, pressing the button to raise his torso so he sat only slightly reclined, but Lestrade jumped in.

"Don't be too hard on the lad, yeah?"

"Don't be... Lestrade he was a seven year-old  _child_ out on the docks in the middle of the night! There was  _gunfire_! He could have..." Here came the tears, the effort of keeping them under control resulting in further aggravation of his wounds which already throbbed in time with his pounding heart.

"He weren't anywhere near when it went down, John. He was... worried about you."

"How did he even know where I was going?" Lestrade took his seat in the hard plastic chair all hospitals seemed to require. John supposed it was so visitors wouldn't stay long. Greg had loosened his rarely worn tie, crisp white shirtsleeves rolled to reveal olive skin to the elbows which he leaned on thighs clad in navy slacks as he wiped both hands over his face with a sigh of preparation.

"He'd overheard you tell Mrs. Hudson to just keep an eye on him but you... lied to her about where you were going. He said he reckoned you didn't want her to worry and it probably had something to do with the Jones case. So he got dressed and..." Greg trailed off, soulfully dark eyes searching the wall for the correct words.

" _And?_ " This kid was unbelievable in the best and worst ways possible.

"He followed you."

"With what money? And how did I not see... Wait I  _did_ shake a cab I thought was tailing me but..."

"By then he'd already figured out where you were going. Admitted he looked over the case file when you didn't know." John shut his eyes and concentrated on breathing, nausea leaking slowly into his belly. "John he... he'd gotten ahold of Sherlock's old phone." It was a statement pregnant with sorrow, demonstrated by the slight breather he took before speaking the next sentence. "Apparently he'd nicked it from wherever you'd had it stashed and used it to call me. I have no clue why he used that phone but who knows why he does a lot of things."

That was the truth. John figured Hamish did the same thing he himself did when the _missing_  got too much sometimes. He'd kept it charged and would call it just to hear that dark, velvety voice, gorgeous even in its clinical execution of speech for the outgoing message.

"He was unsure of whether or not I knew where you were headed," Greg continued. "I immediately told him to take a cab to my mate's address who's on the force and I'd pick him up. I didn't want him walking nor did I want him waiting on the street. But he said he'd found one of Sherlock's old Homeless Network and they'd look after him until I got to where he was." John couldn't really say anything for the amount of help the Homeless Network still gave him regardless of Sherlock's death. It was one of the very few reasons, besides Mycroft's intelligence underlings, that he'd agreed to let Hamish walk to and from school and afterschool activities. He'd hoped Hamish used some of this mystery fund to pay them for their services. "I swear to God I'm one of the very few people who knows how he came to be, but are you sure he got  _any_ of your DNA? He managed to evade even _Mycroft's_ eyes and ears..."

John's insides churned, the hint of amusement (as well as a swell of pride) mere drops in a sea of more negative emotions. There were often times he was unsure of that himself; unsure of whether or not Hamish's more relaxed nature and affinity for sports and sci-fi/fantasy was more something trained into him rather than ingrained. But then, just because John and Sherlock's respective minds worked differently, they did still share the same interest in science and curiosity about how things worked, though it manifested in different ways.  He finally opened his eyes to meet Lestrade's meaningfully. "Did you get... everything?"

The D.I. nodded sagely. "Everything's been cleaned and returned to the proper place. Got both off you while helping you to the Paramedics." Was he the  _only_ one who didn't know how to pickpocket? Hamish used to do it in reverse when he could walk. It was a bit of an odd thing to extract a handful of loose toddler snacks and a plastic dog from a pocket you had no memory of putting it in. Even more hilarious when it happened to Sherlock. "I... I didn't know what you wanted me to tell him so the lad doesn't know about the knife wound." John nodded. "You were a big help. As always. Maybe when you're up and about you could-"

"I can't, Greg. I mean it was brilliant while I was... but I have Hamish now and I'm all he has left. I mean he has Mummy and Mycroft but..."

"I get it, mate. No problem."

"We should just... go back to the way it was." The confession was both a relief and a bit unsettling as he once again sacrificed that part of himself in favour of keeping Hamish safe and happy.

"Maybe that'd be for the best," Lestrade agreed. "But for the record, Hamish was correct."

"Correct?"

"We were... in the wrong place at first. Nearby, but still..."

"Dad!" Tension he didn't know he still held drained at the sound of the little voice, crying out with relief hemmed with tears. He accepted the exuberant hug like the soldier he was, philosophizing the pain into something that reminded him he was still alive to fight another day. He looked over Hamish's smooth features, non-consciously making sure everything was physically alright.

"Oh my  _God_ _,_ boy I should throttle you for-" He interrupted himself clasping the little body to his aching chest once more.

"I'm sorry, Dad! I'm so, so sorry! I thought you were in trouble because the police went to the wrong... I thought you were going to..." It washed over him all at once, the tears on their son's face now mirrored by his own unabashedly. As John hushed him, he noticed Hamish's hair still smelled the way it did when he was a toddler, slightly sweet with an air of earth. The reminder of how young he really was mingled with the normal fear a parent experiences regarding their child's safety, multiplied by only child plus single parent whose partner died horribly and the formula for potential disaster was ready to go off with a hair trigger. This was leaving out the fact of said child's creation and who his parents were in the first place.

Hamish was terrified that he would lose the only father he had left.

"I'm so very sorry, John," Mrs. Hudson quailed, remaining at the door a veined liver-spotted hand tightly wrapped around tissues.

"It's fine Mrs. Hudson." He beckoned her with one hand as he continued to clutch Hamish to him, pain be damned. She came to his bedside, gripping his hand in loosely. "I shouldn't have... It's all fine. It wasn't your fault. Hamish is difficult to monitor under the best of circumstances."

"Am not," Hamish declared, voice muffled by his father's chest. "I'm generally well behaved." Mrs. Hudson stroked her free hand through soft dark waves and ripples. Hamish was of course correct. Again. "When will you come home?" 

"They'll probably have to keep me another few nights for observation." It actually meant at least a week as stab wounds were tricky. How he managed to avoid a punctured lung or other important organ being perforated was a phenomenon in and of itself.

"For your stab wound?" Everyone froze but for an 'Oh, John' gasped by Mrs. Hudson. "Extra stiffening on your left when you move but not from your shoulder. Antibiotics-"

"It's SOP when in full body contact with possible contaminated-"

"The paramedics found something when they pushed your coat aside last night that worried them even more," he murmured. Then, loud and clear, "You smell funny in here, Dad. I don't like it. Come home." If John had any corner of his heart left unshattered, that was now no longer the case. Hamish's words flowed as if he couldn't stop them if he tried.

"I... they have to make sure I'm fully okay before that can happen. Do you understand, Hamburger?" Wide eyes were his initial answer.

"Are you going to die, Dad?"

"'Course not. Why even-?"

"Because you haven't called me that since I was five and Father Fell." Scratch that.  _This_ was the moment John's heart could not be smashed further.

Nurse Miller practically saved the day as she entered to administer a dose of pain medication that would put John out for a while, warning with no heat behind her words that Hamish could only stay until John was asleep.

 

***

When the golden blob glinting in the light of the solitary lamp resolved itself into a button on a perfect navy pinstriped suit, John tried to release a heartfelt groan that probably sounded more like a whimper. Then, a bit more solidly he said,

"No."

"How do you know what I'm going to say?" Mycroft's straight-faced question had way too much amusement in it for John's taste.

"Because you always say the same thing." John wearily jabbed at the button to sit him up, unable fully mask the pain in his grogginess. He was due for another dose soon. He'd just have to make it until then, though Mycroft Holmes would probably make him rip his own stitches out just so he'd have something with which to sew that smug British Government mouth shut. John didn't have to resort to such extremes as yet but he saw it coming, even though Mycroft remained silent for whole minutes, stroking the glossy wooden handle of his ever-present umbrella as if it was a goddamned pet. John was almost sure there were several weapons in it as well as a button that would signal a British equivalent of Batman or something.

"He's getting worse," was all the elder Holmes said at first. It was a simple statement of fact, but John perceived the quiet emotion edging his tone. Caring may not have been an advantage but once the Holmeses put it in place, rabid dogs would rather throw themselves off a cliff than attempt to tear them away from the object of those affections. It was easy, with his cold general demeanor and conscientiously selected words to forget that Mycroft _cared_. He cared about Sherlock and, through him, John. Hamish had sparked such obscene amounts of emotion in the self-restraining man that John thought he may have seen a tear in his pale eye the first time the boy said his name. A  _tear_. He didn't even cry at his brother's...

"What can I do about it? I'm already not taking anymore cases and he's only in school for social interaction really because he's basically at a level where, if I'd let him, he'd be at a university. _T_ _eaching_."

"I have experience in the education of genius boys-"

"Do you?" John narrowed his eyes coldly, cocking his head to the left as he did when he was trying to determine if he heard correctly whether or not the person speaking to him required corporal punishment. Mycroft lost Sherlock, too, he remembered under everything. It took John six months and punching him on three separate occasions within that time to finally settle on that, though he'd known it the entire time. But the fact that Mycroft had a well-manicured hand in the destruction of his little brother caused John to be extra wary. His only hope was that a life time of making it up to John and, especially Hamish as well as the overwhelming guilt would be punishment enough. Polished auburn was illuminated by the lamplight, drawn from the signature darkness of Holmes hair. Mycroft's wasn't thick and full and wildly curled but then, the man wouldn't deign to have such disobedience on his person, no matter if it was the same exact color and texture as his nephew's and brother's; as his father's.

"I do." Mycroft replied with a telling twitch of his eyebrow that meant he knew he deserved that and was resigned to accept whatever malice was thrown in his direction regarding the situation. He then shifted in the chair, recrossing long legs and looking for all the world like he was sitting in a lush armchair instead of the travesty that was hospital visitor seating. How annoying. "When Sherlock first tried to use his... gifts toward solving mysteries, I wasn't able to help him as I hadn't yet acquired my position. I was fifteen and away at university-"

"Wait, you went to uni at fifteen? What am I saying? Of course you did." Mycroft had never really been a child since Sherlock was born and their father had promptly gotten himself killed on some scientific expedition in the wilds of South America. Whilst mentioning that Mycroft was born wearing a tiny suit that was somehow impeccable and how that was fine with Mummy because it was the umbrella she had more of an issue with caused no end of mirth, it was actually rather sad. He'd taken it upon himself to be the man of the house, his role as heir extremely seriously at such a young age.

"I am aware of your concerns Doctor Watson. You have my word that I will never again attempt to take Hamish from you. But do allow my assistance in this matter. It will keep him occupied, challenged."

"Away from crime scenes?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Sudden rage flared in John's gut that had nothing to do with the opening in it.

"What the fuck does that even mean?! If you can't give me your word that, with all of your minions and surveillance, Hamish will be kept away from-" Mycroft stood, his version of bolting out of his chair actually being a swift unfolding more than anything. It did, however, serve its purpose and John fell silent.

"You saw how he was, John." Although his tone was the same, particular and polite, his use of John's Christian name indicated the high levels of Sentiment involved. He was trying to make sure he was heard clearly. "Do you realize how difficult it is to avoid my surveillance? Only one other person has been able to." Sherlock. Of course. "Do you honestly think," Mycroft continued almost gruffly, "that the first thing the child did wasn't to call me and ask what hospital the perpetrator of your stabbing went to?" John's anger flipped to fear and the ability to form  words was a distant memory. Mycroft noticed he had John's complete attention in the manner in which he needed it. "Hamish hides most of his abilities from you." John could only shake his head in disbelief. They shared everything. He thought. "You've accepted that he's brilliant enough to teach at a university level but you want to make sure he's still able to be a child and admirably so. But Hamish is so much  _more_. Not because of how he came to be but because of who he came from. I know you constantly question your overall contribution but you're not. paying. attention. He may have gotten his mind from Sherlock, but the ability to care so much, to love so completely comes from you. It's yet another way he is like my brother was in that he cannot handle his mind properly without your support. To the point where I offered that he be privately tutored in secret-"

"What?!" There was the anger again, just dumped on top of the fear this time as it hadn't been dispelled by Mycroft's words.

"And he  _refused,_ " Mycroft bowled over John's as yet unspoken objections. "He said he would love to but he didn't want to go against your wishes as you needed him. He claimed you had enough trouble, and I quote, 'being sad about Father all the time'."

John lowered his forehead into his hands, the bases of his thumbs pressing painfully against the mounting head ache on top of everything else. It was the last thing he wanted, Hamish seeing how truly devastated he still was about Sherlock. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Mycroft straightened his waistcoat unnecessarily and buttoned his jacket before going for the camel-coloured, appropriately expensive wool coat draped neatly over the back of the chair in which he'd been sitting.

"I will arrange for it to take place at Baker Street with brief excursions on which you are welcome to accompany him if you wish," he said as he prepared to depart. "You will receive his lesson plan and a detailed schedule every week as well as the background information of all with whom he comes in contact. I will provide all necessary items and he will be allowed to study whatever he wishes. Don't think of it as charity, John. Think of it more as an investment. In Hamish. We all want the very best for him. It took Sherlock physically assaulting me for the first time since he was Hamish's age to demonstrate that 'the very best' is not always... technical." Mycroft paused a moment, looking toward the wall but not seeing it as he brushed non-existent lint from his coat collar then put it on. It settled perfectly of course, not as dramatic as Sherlock's but, then, the authority lay in the details of the look's careful compilation.

John hated that he let Mycroft convince him, but Hamish's mind shouldn't be subjected to suffocation through mediocre education just because John's terrified of losing him, too. Satisfied that the difficult conversation was indeed at its conclusion, Mycroft pulled on leather gloves, taking his umbrella up once more as the symbol of this end.

"All of the arrangements will have been made by the time you're discharged so you can concentrate on getting well," Mycroft stated, voice collected, mask of indifference firmly in place. "I see you've received the flowers. Splendid."

"Yeah. Ta," John mumbled. An odd thought hit him suddenly, surfacing from the raging sea of his mind. "Wait, fifteen?" Mycroft turned back to face john, a questioning eyebrow lifted. He was struck once more by the fascinating conundrum that was John Watson. He had his own form of genius, a calm, concentrated righteous fury spurred by devotion and duty, wrapped in a collared button up and a soft jumper. "You were fifteen when Sherlock started in on the Carl Powers case." With a tiny smirk he waited for John to reach his conclusion. 

"I was."

"But that would have made Sherlock..."

"Eight years old, yes." He turned toward the door again making a show of strolling leisurely toward it. "Speedy recovery, my dear Doctor."

With that he was gone, the humming of the machines the only thing to keep him company now that he was wide awake. Next to the flowers he'd received while he was asleep was a hardcover book with a glossy dustjacket on it. He gingerly lay his fingertips on it, attempting to assess its origin. He relinquished that line of thought in favour of picking it up, an action that made his every injury protest. But then, what didn't?

It was a true-crime novel regarding the old Dennis Nilsen serial killer case. John had always meant to read that but had somehow never gotten around to it, something about how it was brimming with useless psychiatric analysis. That had to have been something Sherlock said, which meant he'd read it. Probably the entire thing within an hour, the brilliant prat. On the inside of the front cover was an inscription scrawled by an older man.

" _I will always believe in Sherlock Holmes  -Brian Masters_ "

It was the final stroke. John finally released the tears he'd been holding back when Mycroft was present. The usual talk he had with Sherlock had been postponed when he was under heavy sedation and so he whispered the words now as a quiet prayer. He expressed his hopes that Sherlock wouldn't be too upset with him for letting Mycroft get to him. As if in answer, Nurse Miller arrived with a rather lovely ham sandwich, tea, and a forgiving dose of pain medication. She said nothing of his drying tears, conversation flowing easily as she bustled about, drawing John away from his despair. Of course. 

"So how long were you a Military Nurse, Miss Miller?" John asked, grateful to be talking of a war that was in his past instead of the present one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author's life is just as interesting(?)as the subject. Brian Masters was best known for the biography he wrote for famed British serial killer Dennis Nilsen 
> 
> Here are some Wikipedia links: 
> 
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brian_Masters  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dennis_Nilsen


End file.
